DRUMSHEUGH had arrested Dr. Maclure on the high road the winter before he died, and compelled him to shelter for a while, since it was a rough December night not far from Christmas, and every one knew the doctor had begun to fail.

“Is that you, Weelum?” for the moon was not yet up, and an east wind was driving the snow in clouds; “a' wes oot seein' the sheep werena smoored in the drift, an' a'm wrastlin' hame.

“Come back tae the hoose an' rest; gin there's tae be ony mune she 'ill be oot by nine, and the wind 'ill maybe settle; ye 're baith o' ye sair forfoochen” (exhausted), and Drumsheugh seized Jess's bridle.

For eight miles the wind had been on Mac-lure's back, and he was cased in snow from the crown of the felt hat, that was bent to meet his jacket collar, down to the line of his saddle. The snow made a little bank on the edge of the saddle that was hardly kept, in check by the heat of Jess's body; it was broken into patches on his legs by the motion of riding, but clung in hard lumps to the stirrup irons. The fine drift whirling round powdered him in front, and melting under his breath, was again frozen into icicles on his beard, and had made Jess's mane still whiter. When Drumsheugh's housekeeper opened the kitchen door and the light fell on the horse and her master—a very ghostly sight—Leezabeth was only able to say, “Preserve 's a' body and soul,” which was the full form of a prayer in use on all occasions of surprise.

Three times the doctor essayed to come down, and could not for stiffness, and he would have fallen on the doorstep had it not been for Drumsheugh.

“This 'ill be a lesson tae ye, Weelum,” helping him in to the kitchen; “ye 're doonricht numbed; get aff the doctor's boots, Leezabeth, an' bring a coat for him.”

“Awa wi' ye; div ye think a'm a bairn?... A 'll be masel in a meenut... it wes the cauld... they're stiff tae pull, Leezabeth... let me dae't... weel, weel, if ye wull... but a' dinna like tae see a wumman servin' a man like this.”

He gave in after a slight show of resistance, and Leezabeth, looking up, saw her master watching Maclure wistfully, as one regards a man smitten unto death. Drumsheugh realised in one moment that this was the doctor's last winter; he had never seen him so easily managed all his life.

Leezabeth had kept house for Drumsheugh for many years, and was understood to know him in all his ways. It used to be a point of interesting debate which was the harder, but all agreed that they led the Glen in ingenious economy and unfailing detection of irresponsible generosity. The Kildrummie butcher in his irregular visits to the Glen got no support at Drumsheugh, and the new lass that favoured the ploughmen with flowing measure was superseded next milking time.

“That's yir pint, Jeems, naither mair nor less,” Leezabeth would say to the “second man.” “Mary's hand shaks when there's lads aboot,” and Drumsheugh heard the story with much appreciation in the evening.

She used to boast that there was “nae saft bit aboot the maister,” and of all things Drumsheugh was supposed to be above sentiment. But Leezabeth was amazed that evening at a curious gentleness of manner that softened his very voice as he hung round the doctor.

“Drink it aff, Weelum,” holding the glass to his lips; “it 'ill start the hert again; try an' rise, an' we 'ill gang ben the hoose noo... that's it, ye're on yir legs again... that door's aye in the road... it's a dark passage; gie's yir airm... it's awfu' hoo stiff a body gets sittin'.”

Leezabeth was ordered to bring such dainties as could be found, and she heard Drumsheugh pressing things upon the doctor with solicitude.

“It's no richt tae gang that lang withoot meat, an' the nicht's sae cauld; ye 'ill be fund on the road some mornin'. Try some o' thae black currants; they're graund for a hoast. Ye're no surely dune already.

“Draw in yir chair tae the fire, Weelum; tak this ane; it wes ma mither's, an' it's easier; ye need it aifter that ride. Are ye warm noo?”

“A'm rael comfortable an' content, Drumsheugh; it's a wee lonesome wast yonder when a man comes in weet an' tired o' a nicht; juist tae sit aside a freend, although nane o's say mickle, is a rest.”

“A' wush ye wud come aftener, Weelum,” said Drumsheugh hastily; “we 're no as young as we were, an' we micht draw thegither mair. It's no speakin' maks freends.... Hoo auld are ye noo?”

“Seeventy-three this month, an' a 'll no see anither birthday; ye 're aulder, Drum”—Maclure only was so privileged—“but ye 're a hale man an' gude for twal year yet.”

“Ye micht hae been the same yersel if ye hadna been a senseless fule an' sae thrawn (obstinate) ye wudna be guided by onybody; but if ye gang cautious ye 'ill live us a' oot yet; ye 're no like the same man noo 'at cam in tae the kitchen. Leezabeth wes fleggit at the sicht o' ye,” and Drumsheugh affected mirth.

“Wes she, though?” said Maclure, with some relish. “A've often thocht it wud tak a chairge o' gunpooder tae pit Leezabeth aff her jundy (ordinary course). Hoo lang hes she been wi' ye? A' mind her comin'; it wes aifter yir mither deed; that 's a gude while past noo.”

“Five and thirty year last Martinmas; she 's a Kildrummie wumman, but a' her fouk are dead. Leezabeth's been a faithfu' housekeeper, an' she's an able wumman; a' ve nae-thing tae say against Leezabeth.

“She 's a graund manager,” continued Drumsheugh meditatively, “an' there's no been mickle lost here since she cam; a 'll say that for her; she dis her wark accordin' tae her licht, but it's aye scrapin' wi' her, and the best o' hoosekeepers maks a cauld hame.

“Weelum—” and then he stopped, and roused the fire into a blaze.

“Ay, ay,” said Maclure, and he looked kindly at his friend, whose face was averted.

“Wes ye gaein' tae say onything?” and Maclure waited, for a great confidence was rare in Drumtochty.

“There wes something happened in ma life lang syne nae man kens, an' a' want tae tell ye, but no the nicht, for ye 're tired an' cast doon. Ye'ill come in sune again, Weelum.”

“The mornin's nicht, gin it be possible,” and then both men were silent for a space.

The wind came in gusts, roaring in the chimney, and dying away with a long moan across the fields, while the snow-drift beat against the window. Drumsheugh's dog, worn out with following his master through the drifts, lay stretched before the fire sound asleep, but moved an ear at the rattling of a door upstairs, or a sudden spark from the grate.

Drumsheugh gazed long into the red caverns and saw former things, till at last he smiled and spake.

“Hoo langis't since ye guddled for troot, Weelum?”

“Saxty year or sae; div ye mind yon hole in the Sheuchie burn, whar it comes doon frae the muir? They used to lie and feed in the rin o' the water.

“A' wes passin' that wy lairst hairst, an' a' took a thocht and gied ower tae the bank. The oak looks juist the same, an' a' keekit through, an' if there wesna a troot ablow the big stane. If a' hedna been sae stiff a' wud hae gien doon and tried ma luck again.”

“A' ken the hole fine, Weelum,” burst out Drumsheugh; “div ye mind where a' catchit yon twa-punder in the dry simmer? it wes the biggest ever taen oot o' the Sheuchie; a' telt ye a' next day at schule.”

“Ye did that, an' ye blew aboot that troot for the haie winter, but nane o' us ever saw't, an' it wes juist a bare half pund tae begin wi'; it 's been growin', a' doot; it 'ill be five afore ye 're dune wi't, Drum.”

“Nane o' yir impidence, Weelum. A' weighed it in Luckie Simpson's shop as a' gied hame, an' it made twa pund as sure as a'm sitting here; but there micht be a wecht left in the scale wi't.”

“Fishers are the biggest leears a' ever cam across, and ye've dune yir best the nicht, Drum; but eh, man, guddlin' wes a graund ploy,” and the doctor got excited.

“A' think a'm at it aince mair, wi' ma sleeves up tae the oxters, lying on ma face, wi' naethin' but the een ower the edge o' the stane, an' slippin' ma hands intae the caller water, an' the rush o' the troot, and grippin' the soople slidderin' body o't an' throwin't ower yir head, wi' the red spots glistening on its whlfe belly; it wes michty.”

“Ay, Weelum, an' even missin't wes worth while; tae feel it shoot atween yir hands an' see it dash doon the burn, maltin' a white track in the shallow water, an' ower a bit fall and oot o' sicht again in anither hole.”

They rested for a minute to revel in the past, and in the fire the two boys saw water running over gravel, and deep, cool holes beneath overhanging rocks, and little waterfalls, and birch boughs dipping into the pools, and speckled trout gleaming on the grass.

Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair.

“Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the troot juist swarmin' in the holes.”

“A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They 're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”

“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin' ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud.

“Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied us a flytin' for playin' truant.”

“Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like the Sheuchie—a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this day—that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a' wes wi' her the laist nicht.”

“An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie; he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've never hed as gude a day again.”

“It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel doon ahint Ben Urtach?

“Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower truants that hae gane hame.

“You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an' we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the ither twa.”

“Ye're richt, Weelum, aboot the end o't, whichever gangs first,” said Drumsheugh.

Another silence fell on the two men, and both looked steadfastly into the fire, till the dog rose and laid his head on Drumsheugh's hand. He was also getting old, and now had no other desire than to be with his master.

Drumsheugh moved his chair into the shadow, and sighed.

“It's no the same though, Weelum, it's no the same ava.... We did what we sudna, an' wes feared tae meet oor faithers, nae doot, but we kent it wud be waur oot on the cauld hill, an' there wes a house tae shelter 's at ony rate.”

Maclure would not help, and Drumsheugh went on again as if every word were drawn from him in agony.

“We dinna ken onything aboot...”—and he hesitated—“aboot... the ither side. A 've thocht o't often in the gloamin' o' a simmer nicht, or sittin' here alane by the fire in winter time; a man may seem naething but an auld miserly fairmer, an' yet he may hae his ain thochts.

“When a' wes a laddie, the doctor's father wes in the poopit, an' Dominie Cameron wes in the schule, an' yir father rode up an' doon the Glen, an' they 're a' gane. A' can see at a time in kirk the face that used tae be at the end of ilka seat, an' the bairns in the middle, an' the gude wife at the top: there's no ane a' canna bring up when the doctor's at the sermon.

“Wae's me, the auld fouk that were in Burnbrae, an' Hillocks, an' Whinny Knowe are a' dead and buried, ma ain father an' mother wi' the lave, an' their bairns are makin' ready tae follow them, an' sune the 'ill be anither generation in oor places.”

He paused, but Maclure knew he had not finished.

“That's no the warst o't, for naebody wants tae live ower lang, till he be cripple an' dottle (crazy.) A' wud raither gang as sune as a' cudna manage masel, but... we hev nae word o' them. They've said gude-bye, and gane oot o' the Glen, an' fouk say they 're in the land o' the leal. It 's a bonny song, an' a' dinna like onybody tae see me when it's sung, but... wha kens for certain... aboot that land?”

Still Maclure made no sign.

“The sun 'ill come up frae Strathmore, and set abune Glen Urtach, an' the Tochty 'ill rin as it dis this nicht, an' the 'ill be fouk sowin' the seed in spring and githerin' in the corn in hairst, an' a congregation in the kirk, but we 'ill be awa an'... Weelum, wull that be... the end o' us?” And there was such a tone in Drumsheugh's voice that the dog whined and licked his hand.

“No, Drumsheugh, it 'ill no be the end,” said the doctor in a low, quiet voice, that hardly sounded like his own. “A've often thocht it's mair like the beginnin'. Oor forbears are oot o' sicht, an' a' wudna want tae hae them back, but nae man 'ill ever gar me believe the kirkyaird hauds Drumtochty.

“Na, na, a've watched the Glen for mony a year, an' the maist hertsome sicht a' hae seen is the makin' o' men an' weemen. They're juist thochtless bairns tae begin wi', as we were oorsels, but they 're no dune wi' schule aifter they leave Domsie.

“Wark comes first, and fechtin' awa wi' oor cauld land and wringin' eneuch oot o't tae pay for rent and livin' pits smeddum (spirit) into a man. Syne comes luve tae maist o's, an' teaches some selfish, shallow cratur tae play the man for a wumman's sake; an' laist comes sorrow, that gars the loudest o's tae haud his peace.

“It's a lang schulin', but it hes dune its wark weel in Drumtochty. A'm no sayin' oor fouk are clever or that they haena fauts, but a'm prood to hev been born and lived ma days in the Glen. A' dinna believe there's a leear amang us—except maybe Milton, an' he cam frae Muirtown—nor a cooard wha wudna mak his hand keep his head; nor a wastrel, when Charlie Grant's in Ameriky; nor a hard-herted wratch 'at wudna help his neebur.

“It's a rouch schule the Glen, an' sae wes puir Domsie's; but, sall, he sent oot lads 'at did us credit in the warld, an' a 'm judging Drumsheugh, that the scholars that gied oot o' the Glen the ither road 'ill hae their chance tae, an' pit naebody tae shame. Ye ken a' hevna hed muckle time for releegion, but a body gies a thocht tae the ither warld at a time, an' that's ma ain mind.”

“Ye're maybe no far wrang, Weelum; it soonds wise like, but... ye canna be sure.”

“A've seen fouk 'at were sure,” said the doctor, “an' a 'm thankfu' that a' kent auld Burnbrae. He wes a strict man, an' mony a lecture he gied me aboot gaein' tae kirk an' usin' better langidge, but a' tell ye, he wes the richt sort; nae peetifu' chaff o' heepocrisy aboot him.

“A' wes wi' him at his deith,...”

“Did ye see onything?” Drumsheugh leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“A' saw naething but a gude man gaein' oot on his lang journey, an' a' want tae see nae graunder sicht.

“He wesna conscious, an' his wife, puir wumman, wes murnin' that she wudna get a last look, an' John, him 'at 's Burnbrae noo, wes distressed for his mither's sake.

“'Say the name,' for a' wes holdin' his head, 'an' he 'ill hear;' but a' cudna; it wesna for my tongue.

“So he said it into his father's ear, an' Burnbrae opened his eyes, and githered them a' in a smile, an' a' heard twa words.

“'No evil.' He wes past sayin' fear.... Drumsheugh, a' wud... tak ma chance the nicht wi' auld Burnbrae.”

“Ma mither didna ken us for the laist twa days,” and Drumsheugh rested his head on his hands.

“Ye mind the bit lassiky”—Maclure would tell all when he was at it—“that lived wi' Mary Robertson and Jamie Soutar made sic a wark aboot, for her mither wes dead; she wes chokin' wi' her tribble, an' a' took her on ma knee, for Daisy and me were aye.

“'Am a' gaein' tae dee the day?' she said, an' a' cud not tell a lee lookin' intae yon een.'

“'Ye're no feared, dautie, 'a' said; 'ye 'ill sune be hame.'

“'Haud me ticht, then, Docksie '—that wes her name for me—' an' mither 'ill tak me oot o' yir airms. '... The Almichty wud see the wee lassie wesna pit tae shame, or else... that's no His name.

“The wind's doon,” and the doctor hurried over to the window, “an' the mune is shinin' clear an' sweet; a 'll need tae be aff, an' a 'll hae the licht instead o' the drift aifter a', Drumsheugh.”

Nothing passed between them till they came to the main road, and the doctor said goodnight.

Then Drumsheugh stood close in to the saddle, and adjusted a stirrup leather.

“You an' me are no like Burnbrae and the bairnie, Weelum; a'm feared at times aboot... the home comin'.”

“A' dinna wunner, Drumsheugh, a'm often the same masel; we 're baith truant laddies, chief, and maybe we 'ill get oor paiks, an' it 'ill dae us gude. But be that as it may, we maun juist risk it, an' a'm houpin' the Almichty 'ill no be waur tae us than oor mither when the sun gaes doon and the nicht wind sweeps ower the hill.”

When Leezabeth brought word that Dr. Mac-lure had ridden into the “close,” Drumsheugh knew for what end he had come, but it was characteristic of Drumtochty that after they had exhausted local affairs, he should be stricken dumb and stare into the fire with averted face. For a space the doctor sat silent, because we respected one another's souls in the Glen, and understood the agony of serious speech, but at last he judged it right to give assistance.

“Ye said laist nicht that ye hed something tae say.”

“A'm comin' tae't; juist gie me twa meenuts mair.” But it was ten before Drumsheugh opened his mouth, although he arranged himself in his chair and made as though he would speak three times.

“Weelum,” he said at last, and then he stopped, for his courage had failed.

“A 'm hearin', Drum; tak yir ain time; the fire 's needin' mendin',” and the light, blazing up suddenly, showed another Drumsheugh than was known on Muirtown market.

“It's no easy, Weelum, tae say onything that gangs deeper than the weather an' cattle beasts.” Drumsheugh passed his hand across his forehead, and Maclure's pity was stirred.

“Gin ye hae dune onything wrang, an' ye want tae relieve yir mind, ye may lippen tae me, Drumsheugh, though it titch yir life. A' can haud ma tongue, an' a 'm a leal man.

“A' thocht it wesna that,” as Drumsheugh shook his head; “a'm jidgin' that ye hae a sorrow the Glen disna ken, and wud like an auld freend tae feel the wecht o't wi' ye.”

Drumsheugh looked as if that was nearer the mark, but still he was silent.

“A', ken what ye're feelin' for a' cudna speak masel,” and then he added, at the sight of his friend's face, “Dinna gar yirsel speak against yir wull. We 'ill say naethin' mair aboot it.... Did ye hear o' Hillocks coupin' intae the drift till there wes naethin' seen but his heels, and Gormack sayin', 'Whar are ye aff tae noo, Hillocks?'”

“A' maun speak,” burst out Drumsheugh; “a've carried ma tribble for mair than thirty year, and cud hae borne it till the end, but ae thing a' canna stand, an' that is, that aither you or me dee afore a've cleared ma name.”

“Yir name?” and the doctor regarded Drumsheugh with amazement.

“Ay, ma character; a've naethin' else, Weelum, naither wife nor bairns, so a'm jealous o't, though fouk michtna think it.

“Noo, gin onybody in Muirtown askit ma certeeficat o' a Drumtochty neebur, gie me his answer,” and Drumsheugh turned suddenly on Maclure, who was much confused.

“Nae Drumtochty man wud say ony ill o' ye; he daurna, for ye've gien him nae occasion, an' ye surely ken that yirsel withoot askin'.” But Drumsheugh was still waiting.

“He micht say that ye were juist a wee,” and then he broke off, “but what need ye care for the havers of a market? fouk 'ill hae their joke.”

“Ye said a wee; what is't, Weelum?” and the doctor saw there was to be no escape.

“Weel, they micht maybe sayin' behind yir back, Drum, what some o' them wud say tae yir face, meanin' nae evil, ye ken, that ye were... carefu', in fact, an'... keen aboot the bawbees. Naethin' mair nor worse than that, as a 'm sittin' here.”

“Naethin' mair, said ye?” Drumsheugh spoke with much bitterness—“an' is yon little?

“Carefu';' ye 've a gude-hearted man, Weelum; miser's nearer it, a 'm dootin', a wratch that 'ill hae the laist penny in a bargain, and no spend a saxpence gin he can keep it.”

Maclure saw it was not a time to speak.

“They 've hed mony a lauch in the train ower ma tigs wi' the dealers, an' some o' them wud hae like tae hev cam aff as weel—a cratur like Milton; but what dis Burnbrae, 'at coonted his verra livin' less than his principles, or auld Domsie, that's dead an' gane noo, 'at wud hae spent his laist shillin' sendin' a laddie tae the College—he gied it tae me aince het, like the man he wes—or the minister, wha wud dee raither than condescend tae a meanness, or what can... Marget Hoo think o' me?” and the wail in Drumsheugh's voice went to the heart of Maclure.

“Dinna tak on like this, Drum; it's waesome tae hear ye, an' it 's clean havers ye 're speakin' the nicht. Didna Domsie get mony a note frae ye for his college laddies?—a 've heard him on't—an' it wes you 'at paid Geordie Hoo's fees, an' wha wes't brocht Sir George an' savit Annie Mitchell's life—?”

“That didna cost me muckle in the end, sin' it wes your daein' an' no mine; an' as for the bit fees for the puir scholars, they were naethin' ava.

“Na, na, Weelum, it 'ill no dae. A' ken the hert o' ye weel, and ye 'ill stan' by yir freend through fair and foul; but a'm gaein' tae clear things up aince for a'; a 'll never gang through this again.

“It's no the Glen a'm thinkin' aboot the nicht; a' wud like tae hae their gude opinion, an' a 'm no what they 're considerin' me, but a' canna gie them the facts o' the case, an'... a' maun juist dee as a' hev lived.

“What cuts me tae the hert is that the twa fouk a' luve sud hae reason to jidge me a miser; ane o' them wull never ken her mistake, but a 'll pit masel richt wi' the ither. Weelum, for what div ye think a've been scrapin' for a' thae years?”

“Weel, gin ye wull hae ma mind,” said the doctor slowly, “a' believed ye hed been crossed in luve, for ye telt me as much yersel....”

“Ye 're richt, Weelum; a 'll tell ye mair the nicht; gang on.”

“It cam tae ma mind that ye turned tae bargainin' an' savin', no for greed—a' kent there wes nae greed in ye; div ye suppose a' cudna tell the differ atween ma freend an' Milton?—but for a troke tae keep yir mind aff... aff yir sorrow.”

“Thank ye, Weelum, thank ye kindly, but it wesna even on accoont o' that a've lived barer than ony plooman for the best part o' ma life; a' tell ye, beyond the stockin' on ma fairm a'm no worth twa hunder pund this nicht.

“It wes for anither a' githered, an' as fast as I got the gear a' gied it awa,” and Drumsheugh sprang to his feet, his eyes shining; “it wes for luve's sake a' haggled an' schemed an' stairved an' toiled till a've been a byword at kirk and market for nearness; a' did it a' an' bore it a' for ma luve, an' for... ma luve a' wud hae dune ten times mair.

“Did ye ken wha it wes, Weelum?”

“Ye never mentioned her name, but a' jaloosed, an' there's nane like her in the Glen—”

“No, nor in braid Scotland for me! She 'ill aye be the bonniest as weel as the noblest o' weemen in ma een till they be stickit in deith. But ye never saw Marget in her bloom, when the blossom wes on the tree, for a' mind ye were awa in Edinburgh thae years, learning yir business.

“A' left the schule afore she cam, an' the first time a' ever kent Marget richt wes the day she settled wi' her mither in the cottar's hoose on Drumsheugh, an' she 's hed ma hert sin' that 'oor.

“It wesna her winsome face nor her gentle ways that drew me, Weelum; it wes... her soul, the gudeness 'at lookit oot on the warld through yon grey een, sae serious, thochtfu', kindly.

“Nae man cud say a rouch word or hae a ill thocht in her presence; she made ye better juist tae hear her speak an' stan' aside her at the wark. 'A' hardly ever spoke tae her for the three year she wes wi's, an' a said na word o' luve. A' houpit some day tae win her, an' a' wes mair than content tae hae her near me. Thae years were bitter tae me aifterwards, but, man, a' wudna be withoot them noo; they 're a' the time a' ever hed wi' Marget.

“A'm a-wearyin' ye, Weelum, wi' what can be little mair than havers tae anither man.” But at the look on the doctor's face, he added, “A 'll tell ye a' then, an'... a 'll never mention her name again. Ye 're the only man ever heard me say 'Marget' like this.

“Weelum, a' wes a man thae days, an' thochts cam tae me 'at gared the hert leap in ma breist, and ma blude rin like the Tochty in spate. When a' drave the scythe through the corn in hairst, and Marget lifted the gowden swathe ahint me, a' said, 'This is hoo a 'll toil an' fecht for her a' the days o' oor life an' when she gied me the sheaves at the mill for the threshin', 'This is hoo she 'ill bring a' guid things tae ma hame.'

“Aince her hand touched mine—a' see a withered forget-me-not among the aits this meenut—an'... that wes the only time a' ever hed her hand in mine... a' hoddit the floor, an', Weelum, a' hev it tae this day.

“There's a stile on the road tae the hill, an' a hawthorn-trec at the side o 't; it wes there she met ae sweet simmer evenin', when the corn wes turnin' yellow, an' telt me they wud be leavin' their hoose at Martinmas. Her face hed a licht on it a' hed never seen. 'A 'm tae be marriet,' she said, 'tae William Howe.

“Puir lad, puir lad, aifter a' yir houps; did ye lat her ken?”

“Na, na; it wes ower late, an' wud only hae vexed her. Howe and her hed been bairns thegither, an' a 've heard he wes kind tae her father when he wes sober (weakly), an' so... he got her hert. A' cudna hae changed her, but a' micht hae made her meeserable.

“A' leaned ower that stile for twa lang oors. Mony a time a 've been there sin' then, by nicht and day. Hoo the Glen wud lauch, for a 'm no the man they see. A' saw the sun gae doon that nicht, an' a' felt the darkness fa' on me, an' a' kent the licht hed gane oot o' ma life for ever.”

“Ye carried yersel like a man, though,” and the doctor's voice was full of pride, “but ye 've hed a sair battle, Drum, an' nae man tae say weel dune.”

“Dinna speak that wy, Weelum, for a 'm no say gude as ye 're thinkin'; frae that oor tae Geordie's illness a never spak ae word o' kindness tae Marget, an' gin hatred wud hae killed him, she wud hae lost her bridegroom.

“Gude forgie me,” and the drops stood on Drumsheugh's forehead. “When Hoo cudna pay, and he wes tae be turned oot of Whinnie Knowe, a' lauched tae masel, though there isna a kinder, simpler heart in the Glen than puir Whinnie's. There maun be some truth in thae auld stories aboot a deevil; he hed an awfu' grup o' me the end o' that year.

“But a' never hatit her; a' think a've luvit her mair every year; and when a' thocht o' her trachlin' in some bit hoosie as a plooman's wife, wha wes fit for a castle, ma hert wes melted.

“Gin she hed gien me her luve, wha never knew a' wantit it, a' wud hae spilt ma blude afore ye felt care, an' though ye sees me naethin' but a cankered, contrackit, auld carle this day, a' wud hae made her happy aince, Weelum. A' wes different when a' wes young,” and Drumsheugh appealed to his friend.

“Dinna misca' yersel tae me, Drum; it's nae use,” said the doctor, with a shaky voice.

“Weel, it wesna tae be,” resumed Drumsheugh after a little; “a' cudna be her man, but it seemed tae me ae day that a' micht work for Marget a' the same, an' naebody wud ken. So a' gied intae Muirtown an' got a writer—”

The doctor sprang to his feet in such excitement as was hardly known in Drumtochty.

“What a fule ye 've made o' the Glen, Drumsheugh, and what a heepocrite ye 've been. It wes you then that sent hame the money frae Ameriky 'at cleared Whinnie's feet and set Marget and him up bien (plentiful) like on their merrid,” and then Maclure could do the rest for himself without assistance.

“It wud be you tae 'at started Whinnie again aifter the Pleuro took his cattle, for he wes aye an unlucky wratch, an' if it wesna you that deed oot in New York and sa vit him five years ago, when the stupid body pit his name tae Piggie's bill. It's you 'at wes Whinnie's far-awa' cousin, wha hed gotten rich and sent hame help through the lawyer, an' naebody suspeckit onything.

“Drumsheugh”—and the doctor, who had been finding the room too small for him, came to a halt opposite his friend—“ye 're the maist accomplished leear 'at 's ever been born in Drumtochty, an'... the best man a' ever saw. Eh, Drum,” and Maclure's voice sank, “hoo little we kent ye. It's an awfu' peety Domsie didna hear o' this afore he slippit awa'; a' can see him straichtenin' himsel at the story. Jamie Soutar 'ill be michty when he gets a haudo't....”

Twice Drumsheugh had tried to interrupt Maclure and failed, but now he brought his hand down upon the table.

“Wud ye daur, Weelum, tae mention ae word a' hae telt ye ootside this room? gin a' thocht he wes the man-” And Drumsheugh's face was blazing.

“Quiet, man, quiet! Ye ken a' wudna with-oot yir wull; but juist ae man, Jamie Soutar. Ye 'ill lat me share 't wi' Jamie.”

“No even Jamie; an' a'm ashamed tae hae telt yersel, for it looks like boastin'; an' aifter a' it wes a bit o' comfort tae me in ma cauldrife life.

“It's been a gey lang trial, Weelum; ye canna think what it wes tae see her sittin' in the kirk ilka Sabbath wi' her man, tae follow her face in the Psalms, tae catch her een in the Saicrament, an' tae ken that a' never wud say 'Marget' tae her in luve.

“For thirty year an' mair a 've studied her, an' seen her broon hair that wes like gowd in the sunlight turn grey, and care score lines on her face, b'it every year she 's comelier in ma een.

“Whinnie telt us his tribble aboot the bill in the kirkyard, an' a' saw the marks o 't in her look. There wes a tear ran doon her cheek in the prayer, an' a'... cud hae grat wi' her, an' then ma hert loupit wi' joy, for a' thocht there 'll be nae tear next Sabbath.

“Whinnie got the siller frae his... cousin, ye ken, through the week, an' settled his debt on Friday. A' met him on the street, an' made him buy a silk goon for Marget:... a' gied wi' him tae choose it, for he's little jidgment, Whinnie.”

“A' wes in the train that day masel,” broke in the doctor, “an' a' mind Hillocks daffin' wi' ye that nae wumman cud get a goon oot o' you. Sic fuies an' waur.”

“A' didna mind that, no ae straw, Weelum, for Marget wes ten year younger next Sabbath, an' she wore ma goon on the Saicrament. A' kent what bocht it, an' that was eneuch for me.

“It didna maitter what the Glen said, but ae thing gied tae ma hert, an' thet wes Marget's thocht o' me... but a' daurna clear masel.

“We were stannin' thegither ae Sabbath”—Drumsheugh spoke as one giving a painful memory, on which he had often brooded—“an' gaein' ower the market, an' Hillocks says, 'A' dinna ken the man or wumman 'at 'ill get a bawbee oot o' you, Drumsheugh. Ye 're the hardest lad in ten parishes.'

“Marget passed that meenut tae the kirk, an'... a' saw her look. Na, it wesna scorn, nor peety; it wes sorrow.... This wes a bien hoose in the auld day when she wes on the fairm, an' she wes wae tae see sic a change in me. A' hed tae borrow the money through the lawyer, ye ken, an' it wes a fecht payin' it wi' interest. Aye, but it wes a pleesure tae, a' that a'll ever hev, Weelum....”

“Did ye never want tae... tell her?” and the doctor looked curiously at Drumsheugh.

“Juist aince, Weelum, in her gairden, an' the day Geordie deed. Marget thankit me for the college fees and bit expenses a' hed paid. 'A father cudna hae been kinder tae ma laddie,' she said, an' she laid her hand on ma airm. 'Ye 're a gude man, a' see it clear this day, an'... ma hert is... warm tae ye,' A' ran oot o' the gairden. A' micht hae broken doon. Oh, gin Geordie hed been ma ain laddie an' Marget... ma wife.”

Maclure waited a little, and then he quietly left, but first he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder to show that he understood.

After he had gone, Drumsheugh opened his desk and took out a withered flower. He pressed it twice to his lips, and each time he said Marget with a sob that rent his heart. It was the forget-me-not.

III.—DRUMSHEUGH'S REWARD

People tell us that if you commit a secret to a dweller in the city, and exact pledges of faithfulness, the confidence will be proclaimed on the housetops within twenty-four hours, and yet, that no charge of treachery can be brought against your friend. He has simply succumbed to the conflict between the habit of free trade in speech and the sudden embargo on one article. Secret was engraved on his face and oozed from the skirts of his garments, so that every conversational detective saw at a glance that the man was carrying treasure, and seized it at his will.

When one told a secret thing to his neighbour in Drumtochty, it did not make a ripple on the hearer's face, and it disappeared as into a deep well. “Ay, ay” was absolutely necessary as an assurance of attention, and the farthest expression of surprise did not go beyond, “That wesna chancy.” Whether a Drumrecesses of his mind, no one can tell, but when Jamie Soutar, after an hour's silence, one evening withdrew his pipe and said “Sall” with marked emphasis, it occurred to me that he may have been digesting an event. Perhaps the law of silence was never broken except once, but that was on a royal scale, when William Maclure indirectly let out the romance of Drumsheugh's love to Marget Howe, and afterwards was forgiven by his friend.

Marget had come to visit the doctor about a month before he died, bearing gifts, and after a while their conversation turned to George.

“Dinna speak aboot ma traivellin' tae see ye,” Marget said; “there's no a body in the Glen but is behaddit tae ye, an' a' can never forget what ye did for ma laddie yon lang summer-time.”

“A' did naethin,' an' nae man can dae muckle in that waesome tribble. It aye taks the cleverest laddies an' the bonniest lassies; but a' never hed a heavier hert than when a' saw tochty man ever turned over secrets in the Geordie's face that aifternoon. There's ane fechtin' decline.”

“Ye mak ower little o' yir help, doctor; it wes you 'at savit him frae pain an' keepit his mind clear. Withoot you he cudna workit on tae the end or seen his freends. A' the Glen cam up tae speir for him, and say a cheery word tae their scholar.

“Did a' ever tell ye that Posty wud gang roond a gude half mile oot o' his road gin he hed a letter for Geordie juist tae pit it in his hands himsel? and Posty 's a better man sin then; but wha div ye think wes kindest aifter Domsie an' yersel?”

“Wha wes't?” but Maclure lifted his head, as if he had already heard the name.

“Ay, ye 're richt,” answering the look of his friend, “Drumsheugh it wes, an' a' that simmer he wes sae gentle and thochtfu' the Glen wudna hae kent him in oor gairden.

“Ye've seen him there yersel, but wud ye believe't, he cam three times a week, and never empty-handed. Ae day it wud be some tasty bit frae Muirtown tae gar Geordie eat, another it wud be a buke the laddie had wantit tae buy at College, an' a month afore Geordie left us, if Drumsheugh didna come up ae Saturday wi' a parcel he had gotten a' the way frae London.

“'Whatna place is this, Geordie?' an' he taks aff the cover an' holds up the picture. It wud hae dune ye gude tae hae seen the licht in the laddie's een. 'Athens,' he cried, an' then he reached oot his white hand tae Drumsheugh, but naethin' wes said.

“They were at it the hale forenoon, Geordie showin' the Temple the Greeks set up tae Wisdom, an' the theatre in the shadow of the hill whar the Greek prophets preached their sermons; an' as a' gied oot an' in, Geordie wud read a bonnie bit, and Domsie himsel cudna hae been mair interested than Drumsheugh. The deein' scholar an' the auld fairmer....”

“Ay, ay,” said Maclure..

“Ae story Geordie telt me never ran dry wi' Drumsheugh, an' he aye askit tae hear it as a treat till the laddie grew ower sober—aboot twa lovers in the auld days, that were divided by an airm o' the sea, whar the water ran in a constant spate, and the lad hed tae sweem across tae see his lass. She held a licht on high tae guide him, an' at the sicht o't he cared naethin' for the danger; but ae nicht the cauld, peetiless water gied ower his head, and her torch burned oot. Puir faithfu' lass, she flung hersel into the black flood, and deith jined them where there's nae partin'.”

“He likit that, did he?” said Maclure, with a tone in his voice, and looking at Marget curiously.

“Best o' a' the ancient things George gied him in the gairden, an' ae day he nearly grat, but it wesna for their deith.

“'Na, na,' he said tae George, 'a' coont him happy, for he hed a reward for the black crossin'; laddie, mony a man wud be wullin' tae dee gin he wes luved. What think ye o' a man fechtin' through the ford a' his life wi' nae kindly licht?'

“Geordie wes wae for him, an' telt me in the gloamin', an' it set me thinkin'. Cud it be that puir Drumsheugh micht hae luved an' been refused, an' naebody kent o't? Nane but the Almichty sees the sorrow in ilka hert, an' them 'at suffers maist says least.

“It cam tae me that he must hae luved, for he wes that conseederate wi' Geordie, sae wum-manlike in his manner wi' the pillows and shawls, sae wilie in findin' oot what wud please the laddie; he learned yon in anither place than Muirtown Market. Did ye... ever hear onything, doctor? It 's no for clashin' (gossip) a' wud ask, but for peety an' his gudeness tae ma bairn.”

“Is't likely he wud tell ony man, even though he be his freend?” and Maclure fenced bravely, “did ye hear naethin' in the auld days when ye wes on Drumsheugh?”

“No a whisper; he wes never in the mooth o' the Glen, an' he wesna the same then; he wes quiet and couthy, ceevil tae a' the workin' fouk; there wes nae meanness in Drumsheugh in thae days. A've often thocht nae man in a' the Glen wud hae made a better husband tae some gude wumman than that Drumsheugh. It passes me hoo he turned sae hard and near for thirty years. But dinna ye think the rael Drumsheugh hes come oot again?”

The doctor seemed to be restraining speech.

“He's no an ordinary man, whatever the Glen may think,” and Marget seemed to be meditating. “Noo he wudna enter the hoose, an' he wes that agitat that aince when a' brocht him his tea he let the cup drop on the graivel. Be sure there's twa fouk in every ane o 's—ae Drumsheugh 'at focht wi' the dealers an' lived like a miser, an' anither that gied the money for Tammas Mitchell's wife an' nursit ma laddie.”

Maclure would have been sadly tried in any case, but it was only a week ago Drumsheugh had made his confession. Besides, he was near the end, and his heart was jealous for his friend. It seemed the worse treachery to be silent.

“There 's juist ae Drumsheugh, Marget Hoo, as ye 're a leevin' wumman, him ye saw in the gairden, wha wud hae denied himsel a meal o' meat tae get thae pictures for yir... for Geordie.

“The Glen disna ken Drumsheugh, and never wull this side o' the grave,” and the doctor's voice was ringing with passion, and something like tears were in his eyes; “but gin there be a jidgment an'... books be opened, the 'ill be ane for Drumtochty, and the bravest page in it 'ill be Drumsheugh's.

“Ye 're astonished, an' it's nae wunder”—for the look in Marget's grey eyes demanded more—“but what a' say is true. It hes never been for himsel he's pinched an' bargained; it wes for... for a freend he wantit tae help, an' that wes aye in tribble. He thocht 'at it micht... hurt his freend's feelin's and pit him tae shame in his pairish gin it were kent, so he took the shame himsel. A' daurna tell ye mair, for it wud be brakin' bonds at ween man and man, but ye 've herd eneuch tae clear Drumsheugh's name wi' ae wumman.”

“Mair than cleared, doctor,” and Marget's face glowed, “far mair, for ye 've shown me that the Sermon on the Mount is no a dead letter the day, an' ye 've lifted the clood frae a gude man. Noo a'll juist hae the rael Drumsheugh, Geordie's Drumsheugh,” and again Marget thanked Maclure afresh.

For the moment the heroism of the deed had carried her away, but as she went home the pity of it all came over her. For the best part of his life had this man been toiling and suffering, all that another might have comfort, and all this travail without the recompense of love. What patience, humility, tenderness, sacrifice lay in unsuspected people. How long?... Perhaps thirty years, and no one knew, and no one said, “Well done!” He had veiled his good deeds well, and accepted many a jest that must have cut him to the quick. Marget's heart began to warm to this unassuming man as it had not done even by George's chair.

The footpath from the doctor's to Whinnie Knowe passed along the front of the hill above the farm of Drumsheugh, and Marget came to the cottage where she had lived with her mother in the former time. It was empty, and she went into the kitchen. How home-like it had been in those days, and warm, even in winter, for Drumsheugh had made the wright board over the roof and put in new windows. Her mother was never weary speaking of his kindness, yet they were only working people. The snow had drifted down the wide chimney and lay in a heap on the hearth, and Marget shivered. The sorrow of life came upon her—the mother and the son now lying in the kirkyard. Then the blood rushed to her heart again, for love endures and triumphs. But sorrow without love... her thoughts returned to Drumsheugh, whose hearthstone was cold indeed. She was now looking down on his home, set in the midst of the snow. Its cheerlessness appealed to her—the grey sombre house where this man, with his wealth of love, lived alone. Was not that Drumsheugh himself crossing the laigh field, a black figure on the snow, with his dog behind him... going home where there was none to welcome him... thinking, perhaps, what might have been?... Suddenly Marget stopped and opened a gate.... Why should he not have company for once in his lonely life... if the woman he loved had been hard to him, why should not one woman whom he had not loved take her place for one half hour?

When Drumsheugh came round the corner of the farmhouse, looking old and sad, Marget was waiting, and was amazed at the swift change upon him.

“Ye didna expect me,” she said, coming to meet him with the rare smile that lingered round the sweet curves of her lips, “an' maybe it 's a leeberty a'm takin'; but ye ken kindness breaks a' barriers, an' for the sake o' Geordie a' cudna pass yir hoose this nicht withoot tellin' that ye were in ma hert.”

Drumsheugh had not one word to say, but he took her hand in both of his for an instant, and then, instead of going in by the kitchen, as all visitors were brought, save only the minister and Lord Kilspindie, he led Marget round to the front door with much ceremony. It was only in the lobby he found his tongue, and still he hesitated, as one overcome by some great occasion.

“Ye sud be in the parlour, Marget Hoo, but there 's no been a fire there for mony a year; wull ye come intae ma ain bit room?... A' wud like tae see ye there,” and Marget saw that he was trembling, as he placed her in a chair before the fire.

“Ye were aince in this room,” he said, and now he was looking at her wistfully; “div ye mind? it's lang syne.”

“It wes when a' cam' tae pay oor rent afore we flitted, and ye hed tae seek for change, an' a' thocht ye were angry at oor leavin'.”

“No angry, na, na, a' wesna angry... it took me half an oor tae find some siller, an' a' the time ye were sittin' in that verra chair... that wes the Martinmas ma mither deed... ye 'ill no leave withoot yir tea.”

After he had gone to tell Leezbeth of his guest, Marget looked round the room, with its worn furniture, its bareness and its comfortlessness. This was all he had to come to on a Friday night when he returned from market; out and in here he would go till he died. One touch of tenderness there was in the room, a portrait of his mother above the mantelpiece, and Marget rose to look at it, for she had known her, a woman of deep and silent affection. A letter was lying open below the picture, and this title, printed in clear type at the head, caught Marget's eye:

Marget's heart suddenly stood still, for it was the firm that sent the seasonable remittances from Whinnie's cousin. This cousin had always been a mystery to her, for Whinnie could tell little about him, and the writers refused all information whatever, allowing them to suppose that he was in America, and chose to give his aid without communication. It had occurred to her that very likely he was afraid of them hanging on a rich relation, and there were times when she was indignant and could not feel grateful for this generosity.

Other times she had longed to send a letter in her name and Whinnie's, telling him how his gifts had lightened their life and kept them in peace and honesty at Whinnie Knowe; but the lawyers had discouraged the idea, and she had feared to press it.

What if this had all been a make-believe, and there had been no cousin... and it had been Drumsheugh who had done it all.... Was this the object of all his sacrifice... to keep a roof above their heads... and she had heard him miscalled for a miser and said nothing... how could she look him in the face... she was sure of it, although there was no proof.... A grey light had been gathering all the afternoon in her mind, and now the sun had risen, and everything was light.

Any moment he might come in, and she must know for certain; but it was Leezbeth that entered to lay the tea, looking harder than ever, and evidently seeing no call for this outbreak of hospitality.

“The maister's gaen upstairs tae clean him-sel,” said the housekeeper, with a suggestion of contempt. “A' saw naethin' wrang wi' him masel,” But Leezbeth was not one that could move Marget to anger at any time, and now she was waiting for the sight of Drumsheugh's face.

He came in twenty years younger than she had seen him in that dreary field, and, speaking to her as if she had been the Countess of Kil-spindie, asked her to pour out the tea.

“Drumsheugh,” and he started at the note of earnestness, “before a' sit doon at yir table there's ae question a' have tae ask an' ye maun answer. Ye may think me a forward wumman, an' ma question may seem like madness, but it's come intae ma mind, an a 'll hae nae rest till it 's settled.”

Marget's courage was near the failing, for it struck her how little she had to go on, and how wild was her idea; but it was too late to retreat, and she also saw the terror on his face.

Drumsheugh stood silent, his eyes fixed on her face, and his hand tightened on the back of a chair.

“Is't you—are ye the freend 'at hes helped ma man an' me through a' oor tribbles?”

Had he been prepared for the ordeal, or had she opened with a preface, he would have escaped somehow, but all his wiles were vain before Marget's eyes.

“Ye were wi' William Maclure,” and Drumsheugh's voice quivered with passion, “an' he telt ye. A 'll never forgie him, no, never, nor speak ae word tae him again, though he be ma dearest freend.”

“Dinna blame Doctor Maclure, for a' he did wes in faithfulness an' luve,” and Marget told him how she had made her discovery; “but why sud ye be angry that the fouk ye blessed at a sair cost can thank ye face tae face?” Marget caught something about “a pund or twa,” but it was not easy to hear, for Drumsheugh had gone over to the fireplace and turned away his face.

“Mony punds; but that's the least o 't; it's what ye suffered for them a' thae years o' savin', and what ye did wi' them, a'm rememberin'. Weelum micht never hev hed a hoose for me, an' a' micht never hev hed ma man, an' he micht gaen oot o' Whinnie Knowe and been broken-herted this day hed it no been for you.

“Sic kindness as this hes never been kent in the Glen, an' yet we 're nae blude tae you, no mair than onybody in the pairish. Ye 'ill lat me thank ye for ma man an' Geordie an' masel, an' ye 'ill tell me hoo ye ever thocht o' showin' us sic favour.” Marget moved over to Drumsheugh and laid her hand on him in entreaty. He lifted his head and looked her in the face.

“Marget!” and then she understood. He saw the red flow all over her face and fade away again, and the tears fill her eyes and run down her cheeks, before she looked at him steadily, and spoke in a low voice that was very sweet.

“A' never dreamed o' this, an' a 'm not worthy o' sic luve, whereof I hev hed much fruit an' ye hev only pain.”

“Ye're wrang, Marget, for the joy hes gien ower the pain, an' a 've hed the greater gain. Luve roosed me tae wark an' fecht, wha micht hae been a ne'er-dae-weel. Luve savit me frae greed o' siller an' a hard hert. Luve kept me clean in thocht an' deed, for it was ever Marget by nicht an' day. If a'm a man the day, ye did it, though ye micht never hae kent it. It's little a' did for ye, but ye 've dune a'thing for me... Marget.”

After a moment he went on:

“Twenty year ago a' cudna hae spoken wi' ye safely, nor taken yir man's hand withoot a grudge; but there's nae sin in ma luve this day, and a' wudna be ashamed though yir man heard me say, 'A' luve ye, Marget.'”

He took her hand and made as though he would have lifted it to his lips, but as he bent she kissed him on the forehead. “This,” she said, “for yir great and faithfu' luve.”

They talked of many things at tea, with joy running over Drumsheugh's heart; and then spoke of Geordie all the way across the moor, on which the moon was shining. They parted at the edge, where Marget could see the lights of home, and Drumsheugh caught the sorrow of her face, for him that had to go back alone to an empty house.

“Dinna peety me, Marget; a've hed ma reward, an' a'm mair than content.”

On reaching home, he opened the family Bible at a place that was marked, and this was what he read to himself: “They which shall be accounted worthy... neither marry nor are given in marriage... but are as the angels of God in heaven.”